


Baseball, Country, Jesus

by Amelia_Clark



Category: Supernatural
Genre: "Born to Run" is effing BLEAK y'all, Classic Rock, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, Impala Sex, M/M, Rain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-19
Updated: 2014-08-19
Packaged: 2018-02-13 21:12:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2165391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amelia_Clark/pseuds/Amelia_Clark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The storm hits them outside of Galesburg, the gray curtain on the horizon becoming first drops, then splashes, then a barrage of falling water that pounds against the Impala's windshield and turns the entire world to wet darkness, however high Dean cranks the wipers.</p><p>"Shit shit <i>shit,"</i> he mutters. "I can't see a goddamn thing, Cas, we're gonna have to pull over until it lets up."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Baseball, Country, Jesus

**Author's Note:**

> Nothing fancy, just some side-of-the-road Springsteen feels and awkward sex. Practically writes itself.

The storm hits them outside of Galesburg, the gray curtain on the horizon becoming first drops, then splashes, then a barrage of falling water that pounds against the Impala's windshield and turns the entire world to wet darkness, however high Dean cranks the wipers.

"Shit shit _shit,"_ he mutters. "I can't see a goddamn thing, Cas, we're gonna have to pull over until it lets up."

Cas is dozing fitfully in the backseat—in the months he's been human, he still hasn't quite figured out sleep, and he can usually only grab an hour or two before waking up, confused and frightened by the loss of time. This is when he screams, when Dean will jolt awake and go to him, no matter when, to find him in his room or on the sofa and talk him through the shock. Sometimes he pets Cas's hair or strokes his shoulder. Cas knows he's only trying to soothe him, but when he remembers his dreams, they all begin with that touch: Dean's hands on him, moving from where they've been to where he longs for them to go.

"Fine with me,” he says, yawning. “Turn the hazard lights on." Cas has been studying the driver's license booklets for various states—he can get a fake ID, of course, but he'd like to actually learn to drive. Not that Dean's likely to turn over the wheel of his Baby anytime soon.

"Dude, I know," says Dean, affection bleeding through irritation. He pulls over, puts them in park, and drops his hands to the wheel, glaring out at the rain. "This better stop soon. Schedule to keep."

"Right. I'm sure you have a pressing appointment with the bunker liquor cabinet."

Dean glances over his shoulder. "You're picking up sarcasm pretty well, Cas."

"I'm learning from the master," says Cas, quirking a smile.

Dean hmphs and turns back to face front, taps a drumbeat on the dashboard. "You wanna listen to the radio?"

"I like the sound of the rain, but you go ahead."

Dean fiddles with the knobs till a station comes in: it's a Cubs game, third inning. "Nope," he mutters, and keeps scanning.

"Dammit," he says as he runs through the stations, "I hate this part of the country. Baseball, country, Jesus, country...oh, Jesus country, that's just great. Seriously, where's the real music?"

"You can probably find a farm report, see if soybean futures are up," Cas says. Dean shoots him another dirty look, then crows in triumph when the anthemic chime of "Born to Run" breaks through the static.

"Here we go! This, my friend, is a badass song. Springsteen, man, fuckin' awesome road music." Dean hums along, under his breath but just audible.

Cas cocks his head to listen. The music seems happy at first listen, but there's a longing in the vocals that makes it clear that it's a song of desperation, of emptiness. That the flight is not towards anything real; it's a panicked rush from a life that's become unbearable.

And before he knows it, he's crying for the first time.

It's an awful experience, almost as bad as sleeping: his chest hitches as his breath grows ragged, his skin heats like he's blushing furiously, and suddenly there's this salty fluid coming out of his eyes, and worse stuff coming out of his nose. And he can't stop. He doesn't even know which muscles to flex to try.

"Hey, whoa, Cas, what happened, man?" Cas looks up into Dean's stricken face; he's leaning awkwardly over the front seat, hands dangling helplessly. "What's with the waterworks?"

"I don't want to run anymore, Dean! I've been running and running for years, from the angels or the demons or the Leviathans—even from you—when does it end? When do I get to stop?" He swipes at his nose furiously with his sleeve. "Ugh, how do you stand this? Where is all this coming from?"

Dean glances outside at the storm, which hasn’t slackened one bit, and seems to make a decision. Punching off the radio, he swings his legs up onto the front seat, then kneels and throws one over it—the rest of him follows, too fast, and he half-falls into Cas’s lap in the backseat. “Oof,” Cas says as they collide; Dean’s thigh has ended up between his own, and the sudden jolt of arousal momentarily breaks his crying spell, before Dean blushes and clambers into a sitting position. But he’s still so close, and Cas stares down at the line of his leg, pressed snug against his own.

Dean slings an arm around Cas and nudges his head down onto his shoulder, cheekbone coming to rest on his collarbone. “It’s OK, Cas,” he mumbles, pushing his hair back from his forehead. “It sucks, I know it does.”

"How do you keep going? Dean, I'm so tired. How do you live like this?"

Dean's hand stills in his hair for a moment, then starts up again, stroking him like a cat. "I don't, really," he says. "I mean, I drink a lot. And I fuck random people—well, I used to, I don't really have the energy anymore. And I smile and pretend I'm fine. I'm not—Cas, please, don't use me as a model for how to be human. I'm good with killing, but I'm pretty shit at actually being a person."

"Dean," says Cas, picking up an old refrain, "you're a good person, a hero. You're the Righteous Man."

Dean snorts. "And if you needed proof that Heaven is run by idiots, there you have it." His hand lingers on the nape of Cas's neck, and unbidden sparks trail in the wake of his touch. "People like us, Cas, we don't get to stop running. We don't get to have nice things and normal lives. I tried for a while, with Lisa, and you know how that turned out. You just have to, I don't know, wake up and keep going. Best you can do is find someone to run with."

"Like you," Cas says, so quietly Dean doesn't hear.

Or maybe he does, because he turns his head and presses his lips briefly to the top of Cas's head.

Surprised, Cas pulls away a few inches to look at him. "Did you just kiss me?"

Dean won't meet his eyes. "I guess so? I didn't mean anything by it. Just, you know, trying to be comforting."

Cas raises his head and kisses Dean full on the mouth.

He's wanted to do this for so long he's grown afraid it would be anticlimactic, that it couldn't possibly be as good as he'd hoped. It's not, of course.

It's better.

Dean stiffens at the first contact of Cas's lips with his own, but only for a second; then he sighs, wraps both arms around his back, and pulls him close, opening to push his tongue deep into Cas's mouth. "Cas," he whispers, and Cas can feel him say it, the upwards flick of his tongue, the sibilant hiss at the end. He gets his hands up on Dean's shoulders and pushes him back on the seat, and Dean goes, leaning backwards until he's sprawled across the bench with Cas on top of him, head jammed against the door handle.

“Do you want this, Dean?” he asks, moving his mouth to kiss and lick his jaw, his neck. One hand’s clutching the hem of Dean’s T-shirt, fingers just skimming his stomach. “May I touch you?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, scooching down so he’s closer to horizontal. The movement aligns his pelvis with Cas’s, and Cas lets out a little whimper when he realizes Dean’s as hard as he is.

He rolls his hips down into him, and Dean’s breath hitches. “You do want this,” Cas says. “How long?”

“Fuck, always, I guess.” Dean’s eyes are shut tight, the hand between Cas’s shoulder blades shaking. “I don’t—Cas, I don’t want to talk about this, I just wanna do it. Please.”

Cas freezes. "Dean, if you're going to pretend this didn't happen, I'd rather just stop right now. I'm sick of lying about my feelings for you. Aren't you?"

"Cas, I...you don't understand, it's harder for me. I can't just, I'm not going to drape myself in glitter and rainbows just because I kissed you."

"No one's asking you to," Cas says, letting his annoyance show. "Being with me, if that's what you want, that doesn't change who you are."

"How can it not? C'mon, Cas, I've got—people think of me one way, and they'll think of me differently if I'm—if I'm _with_ you. You know that."

"What “people” are you talking about?" Cas is straddling Dean now, one shoe in the footwell, and he's glaring down at the hunter, who still won't open his eyes. "You don’t care what strangers think of you—you never have—and the only person you see regularly besides me is Sam, for God’s sake, do you really think he’ll care? Do you honestly think that Sam, after everything you’ve been through, will reject you simply for being bisexual?"

"Don't say that. Please, don't call me that. Just—why can't you be kissing me right now? Please, Cas, I want you so bad, I can't think about anything else right now. I won't, I promise, we'll figure it out, OK? I’ll tell Sammy when we get back, I swear. I won't try to erase this. _Please."_ He finally looks up at Cas with unguarded eyes, and he lifts his hips and tugs at Cas's shirt, hard...and Cas falls into him with a silent prayer that this time he'll be true to his word.

It's so good to kiss him again, the few minutes in between frustrating as the years before. Dean's mouth is soft, but his tongue is urgent, seeking out every corner of Cas's mouth, licking slowly along his lips; soon, Dean tilts Cas's chin to get to his neck, nibbling at the skin over his pulse. Cas whimpers his approval and pushes Dean's T-shirt past his ribs, brushing the pad of his thumb back and forth over a nipple until it hardens beneath his touch. Then he bends down to fasten his lips over it, sucking while Dean moans and buries both hands in his hair.

"Hey, sit up a sec, lemme get these shirts off," Dean pants, and Cas obeys, watching Dean shuck flannel and tee with hungry eyes. "You too, yeah? Want to feel your skin," Dean says, and again Cas is happy to oblige. Dean pulls him back down to kiss him, and their chests slide together, hot and firm. Cas loses himself in it, in Dean, in the insistent mouth on his and the hand creeping below his waist.

Dean presses his palm on the length of Cas's cock, grinding his zipper into it slightly, and Cas is pretty sure that it hurts a little, but that's drowned in the wave of lust that sweeps over him. And then Dean's taking down the zipper, pulling his cock out of his boxers, and the feel of Dean's fingers on his bare flesh makes him dizzy, so dizzy he has to drop his forehead into the crook of Dean's neck until the world stops spinning.

Which it doesn't, because Dean's wrapped his hand around his cock and is pumping slowly, stroking his thumb across the head on the downstroke, and it feels _so good,_ and he tries to tell Dean so but all that comes out his mouth is a high-pitched keening sound. Dean smirks up at him. "You like that, huh? Guess I'm not doing too bad at this."

"No, I mean yes, yes I like that, no, you're doing fine—fuck, Dean, I'm—" but he comes before he can say it, thrusting erratically into Dean's hand and spilling over his stomach.

Dean looks down at himself, grimacing at his sticky skin. "OK, that's different."

Cas blushes. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, to come so quickly. I'm...unused to manual stimulation."

"Dude, that's the stuffiest way to say 'handjob' I've ever heard," says Dean. "It's all right, I'll clean up." He gropes for his T-shirt and swipes at the mess.

"Would you—should I do the same? I want to make you come, Dean." Cas sits up enough to fiddle with the button of Dean's fly.

Dean groans at the words. "I want you to, believe me. Could you, though, uh, would you go down on me?"

Cas triumphs over the top button and moves onto the next. "Fellatio? I can...I can try. I don't know how, though."

“I’m not looking for blowjob of the year, Cas, it’s OK, I just…I just want your mouth on me. Please? I’ve thought about it so much, I just wanna know how it feels.”

"I'll do my best, Dean." They fumble the rest of his fly open together, and Dean sits up against the fogged window, tugs jeans and boxers off entirely, throwing them into the footwell. He's got one leg on the seat, knee up, the other spread wide, and Cas settles between them awkwardly, half kneeling on the floor. It's not a comfortable position, especially for Cas, but he's still mesmerized by Dean's nakedness, reaching out to slide his hands up Dean's thighs.

"You are so beautiful," he murmurs, eyes transfixed by the smooth curve of his cock, flushed and stiff against the yielding flesh of his stomach.

Dean stifles a laugh. "Uh, thanks, I guess? That's a new one."

"That's a shame, Dean. You should be told of your beauty every day of your life," says Cas, and as Dean whimpers, he inches forward to lick slowly up his cock. It tastes roughly the same as the rest of Dean’s skin, but the texture is odd, soft and hard at once, and so warm against his tongue. 

Dean makes a guttural sound. “You should do that again,” he gasps, and Cas does, lingering on the head in an open-mouthed kiss. There’s a hint of a different taste here, salty like tears but slightly bitter, and he sucks gently, curious, then looks up in alarm at the thwack of Dean’s head hitting the window.

“Sorry? Was that wrong?”

Dean shakes his head furiously. “Fuck, no, Cas, trust me, you want that reaction. Just, uh, can you get more of it in your mouth? Probably not all of it, but—oh, fuck, yeah, like that,” he pants when Cas slides his mouth down over the shaft, down and down until there’s a hitch in his throat, and he surfaces, coughing. Dean strokes his hair while he gets his breath back for a minute, and then Cas wraps his hand around the base of his cock and takes the rest back in, swirling his tongue around what he can reach, moving his fist below as he tries to imitate what Dean did to him.

"That's good, Cas, you're doing good," Dean tells him, jerking his hips in shallow thrusts. Cas closes his eyes to focus: the weight of Dean's cock in his mouth, the slip-slide of it through his hand, the sharp pleasure-pain as Dean yanks at his hair. He hums at the sensation, and Dean yelps— _"do that again"_ —so he does, a steady thrum in the back of his throat, and then Dean cries out, "Pull off, pull off, I'm gonna come," pushing up his chin. Cas looks up into Dean's face, slack-jawed with bliss, and keeps working his hand; Dean grabs at his jaw and urges him up for a kiss that's mostly teeth, shuddering into orgasm.

“Holy shit,” Dean says after a moment. “Cas—I really wasn’t angling for this when I came back here. I just, you were sad. I wanted to help.”

“You did,” Cas says simply, and grabs Dean’s dirty shirt to clean his come off of them. Dean pulls on his overshirt instead, tugs on his pants.

“Hey, rain stopped,” he says, wiping a clean streak through the condensation.

“I didn’t even notice.” Cas dresses himself, stealing glances at Dean as he does. A blush in the hollow of his throat peeks above his collar, and Cas smiles faintly with pride, knowing he made that happen.

“Ride up front with me?” Dean says, almost shy, and Cas nods.

When they’re settled in the front seat, neither of them speaks while Dean starts the car, pulls back onto the highway and gets up to speed. Cas’s heart is pounding in his ears, a terrified thumping—so little of him really believes Dean will follow through. This is probably all he gets, this and maybe other times like it, furtive fucks Dean can close off from the rest of his life. It’s not enough, but he doesn’t know what else he can do.

Then Dean clears his throat, staring blankly at the road, and says, “Tramps like us, baby.” He reaches across the Impala’s seat and takes his hand.


End file.
